


the first kiss of frost

by clutzycricket



Series: For and Against the Devil [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, F/M, Past Abuse, Pre-Relationship, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-22 22:33:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8303677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clutzycricket/pseuds/clutzycricket
Summary: Winterfell was taken by the Boltons during the mage war.
Now that the war is (properly) over, Sansa and Arya are trying to get their home back. Rhaenys and Nymeria set up an appointment with their cousin Quentyn Martell, who is a real estate attorney.
Quentyn normally wishes his family would stop being so weird, but this time... well, they might be on the right track.





	

**(the first time he heard of the case)**

Quentyn knows better by now than to trust anything that he is told by his relatives. He knows this. And if it seems like he is about to forget- or if it seems like they are going to sic sweet Cousin Rhae or shove Bara in his face until he gives up out of sheer exhaustion, then Gerris and Ynys would start giving him Looks.

‘Your family is crazier than a soap opera’ looks. Which is why he didn’t work with Auntie Elia. Well, that and the fact that Auntie Elia was slightly terrifying and he would probably be killed in some dark alley in some superhero-type mess if he worked for her. Instead, he typically dealt with property law, which sounded boring to some people, but when you brought in the supernatural, it was actually  _ fascinating _ .

Everyone knew about the Haunted House ruling, Arianne had said with rolled eyes, but he’d grumbled at her about vampires and records. (Because New York real estate, the undead, and trying to stay in hiding was a complicated matter, and it could get expensive if you were turned at an awkward age, or were a strain of vampire that was rigid in aging, or… well.)

And after Blue lost his temper and did the second ending of the Mage War, he was less inclined to trust them than ever. He wasn’t kidding with himself- the only reason it hadn’t reignited the whole fucking mess, thank you demonic  _ thoughtless _ cousins, was because someone had come up from her recovery spot and there had been thorny black vines the human cops couldn’t see, and one or two mages who suddenly woke up completely off their heads. He’d called Rhae, who had laughingly told him about a drug trial mishap that happened to a coworker she disliked, and expressed surprise about what had happened.

He’d hung up the call and stared at the wall for a while after that, reminding himself that ‘more human’ and ‘human’ didn’t mean the same things. Cletus pulled him out of his stupor, thankfully.

Unfortunately, it also meant that the mages were currently scrambling to get power and influence, and there was a growing stack of cases for him to sort out. 

He sighed at the woman on his desk, holding a stack of papers and a wicked grin. “Nym, off the table. I know you have better manners than that.”

“You’re terribly boring, you know that?” Nymeria said, black eyes watching him with what he thought was amusement. Nym was a step up from Tyene, at least- he agreed with Rhaenys and Brienne that the blonde woman was possibly-probably half-eldritch abomination. Nym was merely wadjet, and he’d learned to deal with most of her quirks ages ago.

She still didn’t get off his desk.

“Do you need something?” 

“I have a case the family needs you to cover.”

...Unexpected. 

The Rhoynish families had managed to cover themselves and those under their protection fairly well, he knew, better even then Rhaegar Targaryen had. 

(Being fair, Sunglass was a prick, Rosby had been nearly a zombie with the potions he took for his lungs, the Stokeworths were a thorny issue  _ before _ Cersei’s meddling, and the Crabbes had been a failing house since the Civil War. And the Targaryens had borne the brunt of the last war.)

“What are the Cardinal Houses?” Nymeria asked, and he sighed and took off his coat.

“Real answer or the official one?” he said. “Because officially, it is Stark, Lannister, Tyrell, and Arryn. Unofficially, and going by a proper net not set by some white guys from Andrew Jackson’s era… Stark, Lannister, Martell, Targaryen. The Starks are the Winter Mages, no one argues with that, the Lannister are illusionists and ritualists without equal, our family stands as balance, and the Targaryens handle what we can’t.”

“And the Arryns and the Tyrells?” Nymeria was playing some sort of game, but rising to the bait wasn’t ever a good idea.

“The Tyrells are plant and earth mages- if we lived in California, I’d say they had a shot at holding a cardinal spot,” Quentyn said, thinking about it. It was one of the few things he and Arianne agreed on that the Sand Snakes didn’t. “I’d still call them an anchor house- they have a lot more power even then the other Greenhand mages.” The Great Houses, he’d been taught, were like an eight-pointed star- the Four Cardinals reaching bold and bright, with a smaller, still-dangerous anchor house in-between. “The Arryns are air and some mentalism, by tradition, but not as dangerous- probably about a match for the Tullys.”

“Mmm, you know the rumors about Old Man Tully, right?” Nym said.

Quentyn nodded. “Yeah. But everyone suspected.”

“Bet Tywin Lannister wished he had a copy of those spells,” Nymeria said, earning a wary grin.

“Then the Greyjoys and Baratheons,” he said, “who are both battle mages, if in different specialties. Together they make up either a seven-pointed star around Dragonstone or an eight-pointed star to protect the city, depending on how you see it. So, what is this about?”

“So, Asha Greyjoy holds Pyke, Will Tyrell holds Highgarden, Uncle holds Sunspear, Dragondick holds Dragonstone, Stannis is finishing the paperwork for Storm’s End, Cursed Lysa and her son are hiding in the Eyrie, and there are two left for argument.” Nymeria crossed her legs and stared at him.

“Riverrun and Winterfell,” he said, thoughtfully. “Tywin Lannister and Walder Frey were trying to divide up the city between their followers.” 

“Yessss,” Nymeria hissed, and he wondered if he hadn’t heard about some weak spot in the mages’ defenses after all. 

“And leaving those two undefended would be stupid,” he said, pinching his nose. “Well, at least Walder Frey is dead, and Genna Lannister seems to have gained a lick of sense from her brother’s death and the rash of… wild magic afterwards. Ynys has already agreed to take the case for Edmure Tully.”

Nymeria’s smile was sharp and wicked. “I did know that.”

He paused and waited for her to add something, then realized what logically followed. “Oh, seriously, Nym? You want me to retake Winterfell? How is this the family’s mess?”

“Rhae asked us, and she doesn’t ask anything of us. You can do it, Quentyn, there is a damsel in distress who needs you,” Nymeria said, clapping a hand on his shoulder as she stood. “And a slightly stabby younger sister.”

He sighed. “This is going to end badly.”

“Meet the girls, at least,” Nym said.

Well, he thought ruefully, at least he had experience with slightly stabby.

  


**(the first time they met)**

Sansa Stark wasn’t exactly what he expected. Which made him wonder what, exactly, he had expected.

Not the woman who was slightly taller than him, with a grey-and-white suit set and blood-red curls cut like a twenties starlet, holding her hands carefully by her sides.

“Miss Stark?” he asked. He’d never actually met Sansa Stark before this- the Martells kept themselves among the Rhoynish wizards, mostly, and his work wasn’t really the sort to mix with a recently graduated photographer.

“Mr. Martell,” she said, rising. “Thank you for speaking with me.”

He shook her hand, noticing the faint scars from a wizard’s manacles around her pale wrists. Really, if they got Leyton Hightower, they should make quick work of the Boltons. Two of his grandchildren had been caught by Lannister mages towards the end, around the time Jaime Lannister got killed. 

(Unofficially, he suspected Jaime might have gotten cold feet, if Rhaella Targaryen’s old spellwork in the white collar hadn’t killed him. Aegon had lit a candle in Starry Grotto for him.)

She caught his gaze on her scars, and gave a thin smile. “The injuries were documented when I was rescued.” 

There was the taste of menthol and mint and having to breathe too deeply in his throat, and he knew they were under illusions weightless enough to make professionals jealous.

“I always set my own reality,” she said. “It drives… drove… my brother crazy. Arya got used to it, eventually.”

“Well, I’ll define the court’s version of reality, and we’ll go from there,” he said, giving her a small smile.

She grinned, with her glossy blue lipstick seeming less over the top and more a warning.

.”Let’s.”

**(the first time she realized what she was doing)**

It had seemed so  _ easy _ , in Rhae’s too-warm kitchen, with Arya curled up in her fur and Jon looking quietly vengeful.

“Sans, your lipstick turned,” Arya said, looking up from her book. She’d magicked the guest room cold. (Well, Sansa hoped it was magic- it didn’t hit her in the overprocessed way air conditioning was. It would be rude to run the AC that much, anyway.)

“Did it?” she said. The cold had come too easily to her since Joffery had brought her Robb’s head. She’d kissed the dead, even if it was on the forehead, and there was a price for blood magic. Especially accidental blood magic. Emotions got in and made it  _ messy _ .

She turned her thoughts away from those memories. Not yet, she told herself. She’d do what Ellaria Sand suggested and see a therapist when this was over, and she wasn’t too afraid she’d merely be making another target.

“What, was the lawyer a flake? Did he hit on you? Are you afraid the Boltons are going to get to him?” Arya asked, sliding off the bed.

“No, he seemed good- he’s Arianne’s little brother, he specializes in property law. His firm’s actually handling Uncle Edmure’s case,” Sansa answered. “He was nice, but in the way Dad was.”

“Do no harm but take no professional shit,” Arya agreed. “Mom just did that disapproving look and people assumed she knew everything.”

“You do that too,” Sansa protested, her heart hurting as she remembered the faint look of surprise and betrayal as…

“Sansa, Sansa,” Arya said, from a million miles away, in the cozy warm woods and yarns of the guest room in Brooklyn. “You are going to give people f _ rostbite! _ ”

“I can’t do this,” Sansa said. “I can’t go up there in front of everyone and tell them how stupid I was, that I was some naive little twit who led her  _ father _ to… who trusted Joff.”

“Sans, people make shitty decisions about other people every day. It’s called one of the downsides of being human, like period cramps or anti-vaxxers.” Arya’s grey eyes, her Stark eyes, were looking at her with worry, but no anger. No judgement.

Sansa giggled, slightly drunkenly. “Most people don’t start mage wars.” Aunt Lyanna had, but Aunt Lyanna was far away who knew where.

“Joffrey did, the little shit,” Arya said, ruffling her choppy hair. It was as short as Sansa’s, after it had gotten tangled in the traps,  but while Sansa had curls, Arya looked like a flock of angry seagulls nested in her hair. “He was gonna anyway- Arianne and Renly both said it. Shireen said it. Crazy Aunt Lysa said it.”

“But…” Sansa tried to find words. “Everyone… they’d have been safe. He said it...”

“Nope, doubt it, Cersei had a hate-on going, and the shit followed her,” Arya said. “And, from one of your favorite books, “The person who commits an action is the one responsible for it, not the people he commits the action upon.”” She tried to look down her nose at Sansa, but since Arya was nearly a foot shorter than her, it didn’t work.

“You stole my copy of that book,” she said, trying for mock-upset. “I didn’t speak to you for a week.”

“Yes, I spent that week reading,” Arya said, ducking out of the way.

**(the first time he realized how badly he needed to win)**

Sansa squared her shoulders as she spoke, meeting the other lawyer’s eyes without blinking. The woman- Barbery Dustin, a woman Quentyn normally had a decent amount of respect for- was trying to insinuate that Sansa had given Winterfell to Joffery, who had sold it to Roose Bolton for services rendered.

Since they had Leyton Hightower, there was no way that shit was flying, and Dustin had to know it. 

(If Arianne had been interested, back when he was trying to explain why he chose his specialty, he could have told her why. He had told Sansa why, when she’d been worried that Dustin could request someone else or claim Hightower was biased.

After all, while Hightower had every reason to hate the Lannisters and even their distant works, the reasoning was all tied up in magic and demons. Since they tried to, you know, not tell all and sundry that magic was real, Dustin could hardly call attention to it.

Also, while not a law as such, Alysanne Targaryen had set the precedent that it was the height of bad form for non-mages to decide the fate of magical families of any standing. Another Targaryen had cemented that with the end of the Lothstons. It was, he’d tried to joke, a precedent they could take shameless advantage of.

Not to mention, all Quentyn would need to do is show records of Joffery’s arrest and trial. Which he would, for form’s sake. He was starting to suspect Dustin was… not deliberately trying to throw this, but not fighting as hard as she could.)

At the end of the day, Sansa was clearly ready to collapse. Arya Stark had texted him that she was trying to set up her classes again, and stuck far enough away she couldn’t pick Sansa up, so could he make sure she ate and got back safe?

“This is all so exhausting,” Sansa sighed. “I’d say I’m not sure it’s worth it, but…” She nearly stumbled on the pavement. “I don’t even have a picture of them. It’s useless to suppose they didn’t just toss it.”

“Could your aunts or uncle have pictures?” Quentyn asked. His family was exhausted, but to be have only Trys and not even a picture of everyone else…

“When they were children, maybe some formal shots,” Sansa guessed. “Aunt Lysa was, well… and Aunt Lyanna was…” she stopped. “I’m not sure if I should apologize?”

“No, I mentioned her first,” Quentyn said. “And I suspect I know what you are going to say, anyway. Rhae was always convinced Jon had no effective parental supervision.”

“Fair,” Sansa allowed. “I think her last letter said she was travelling with some new aid group. She’s not likely to keep those things. And Uncle Edmure is in the same boat as me, and Uncle Benjen… might? I should ask, when this is done.”

“Good,” Quentyn said.

“What’s good?” Sansa asked, the woman and her trick-reflection in the shop window both staring at him.

“That you’re planning for after,” Quentyn said firmly. “After we win.”

“Yeah…” Sansa let out a sigh, not stopping in the haste of city foot traffic. He still smelled the mint-and-menthol mix that signalled her illusions- the taste hit his tongue whenever they left the courtroom. “It’s strange, thinking of going back to Winterfell. It’s my home, really, but it might not seem like it. With the Boltons there, and my parents and Robb and Bran and Rickon… maybe I’ll activate the shelter spellwork, after a few weeks, take in people.”

“Of course, we have the eviction to deal with after this,” Quentyn said. “We can serve them the paperwork as soon as the verdict comes in, and I have no doubt Leyton’s magic won’t help in speeding them out.”

“The house, too,” Sansa added. “I’d be surprised they aren’t dead by the house, but I suppose that mystic helped.”

Mmm, one of the ones Rhae had hit with her vines.

“I give it three days,” Quentyn predicted. “Or prison time.”

**(what she did, after)**

...Ramsey had actually broken down and started ranting- there had been, briefly, the impression of Aegon in the room, the shadow of his sister’s vines, and the memory of Jon’s profuse apologies. 

Quentyn had looked shocked, but Hightower had snorted as Ramsey had gone through a list of sins.

Roose had gotten the eviction notice with his usual lizard blankness, but Dustin had nodded and not made noises about fighting it. Possibly because Ramsey had admitted to murdering her beloved nephew.

Sansa remembered hearing about it, when she was listening at the adult’s table as a child.

Sansa wanted to dance, she wanted to cry, she wanted to talk to her mother about everything that happened.

Quent telegraphed the arm over her shoulder, knowing that this had rubbed her nerves raw and she didn’t need surprises.

“Do you want dinner?” he asked, and there was something tentative and different in this. “Now that this chapter is over?”

She went over it, trying to make sure she had tone and meaning down correctly. “I’m not ready for dating- that will take a while.”

He looked carefully at her. “I figured that. But maybe as friends?”

“As friends,” she agreed. 

Maybe more, maybe later.


End file.
